Danger, love and lots of tea
by yellowsubmarine97
Summary: Sherlock and Molly have slowly started becoming closer. When the detective and John are called on a case, Molly's assistance is needed, and soon they come across a familiar face. With Molly in danger, will Sherlock realise just how close they'd become? -Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise.**

**Authors note: I wrote this story many months ago, but have always been afraid to post any of my writing. Today I realised that if I didn't post it soon, then I never would, and I really wanted to. Think of this as a bit of a taster, and if it gets good reviews then I'll post the other chapters (though i'll be happy if it gets any reviews at all) This is my first fanfic, but I hope you enjoy it :)**

It was a freezing morning in early December. The air outside was crisp and cold; and frost covered the streets like a thick blanket. Big Ben read half past five, looking down on a wintry London. Sherlock sat at a cluttered desk in St Barts surrounded by Petri dishes and test tubes. He was peering through a microscope when he heard the door open and looked up to find a surprised Molly staring at him intently. Her hair was tied back; a dark denim jacket covered a lilac blouse, put together with smart, black trousers and leather pumps. She wore no makeup, but despite this her face was still unblemished, and two clear eyes looked through long, thick lashes.

Sherlock nodded to her and turned his head back to his work. She removed her jacket, and replaced it with her over-worn lab coat. After a few minutes of silence, Molly looked over to the focused man across the room.

"You're up early today," She stated.

"I'm aware," Sherlock replied rudely.

Molly frowned at his bluntness and started her work, reaching into a cupboard in search for a beaker. Sherlock glanced at her turned back and thoughtfully steepled his hands under his chin. He regretted his words. John was always telling him to be more polite to people, and deep down, he knew his friend was right. But what could he say now?

"What did...what did you do last night?" He asked hesitantly.

"Excuse me?" Molly turned with a beaker in her hand.

"What did you do last night?" Sherlock repeated.

"Not much," She placed the beaker by the sink, and leaned against the counter, "Watched EastEnders, called up my mum, we spoke for a while," She inwardly laughed at Sherlock's attempt a small talk.

"New Zealand or Australia?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"What?" Molly's head snapped up.

"Where has she gone to for her holiday?" He elaborated.

"Australia. How did you know she was on holiday?"

Molly was fully aware of Sherlock's...talents; but she hadn't spoken of her mum's holiday to anyone. There was no way he could have known, or even noticed.  
Sherlock smiled, and jumped straight into his deduction...

"When you spoke of your mother you slumped your shoulders, though your eyebrows are at an even angle, so you're not angry with her, but somehow you're not exactly happy with something related to her. You mentioned that you spoke to her on the phone for a while, which means she had been unavailable to talk until then, and there were plenty of different topics of conversation to get through. There is also a postcard sticking out of your bag..."

He glanced over to the corner of the room where her worn out messenger bag had been thrown.  
Molly followed his gaze and laughed in surprise to see the postcard her mother had sent from Australia peeping out of the side pocket.

"I can't see any people or places on the picture but the sun is very clear, which shows your mother has gone somewhere warm, and that fits exactly with what you told me last year about your mother hating the winter. Obviously if someone hates the winter it would make sense to fly to a country where it is summer,"

Sherlock couldn't resist a chance to show off. His eyes sparkled with the knowledge that his deduction had both startled and impressed Molly, who now stood frozen on the other side of the lab. She knew how intelligent and observant Sherlock could be, but never before had he gone into such detail on something she hadn't even mentioned.

"You miss her, don't you?" He asked, though he already knew her answer.

"Very much," She replied, and her eyes watered.

She turned away from him and looked out of the window, not wanting him to see her cry. It took a while to pull herself together, and then she spoke softly, so Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear her.

"I love the winter."

"Me too."

Molly turned and grinned at him.

"Nice to know we have something in common," She joked.

Sherlock returned her grin and stood from his desk. He started packing away some papers whilst absent-mindedly he hummed the tune to Jingle Bells. The hum sounded odd in his baritone voice and Molly couldn't help but laugh. He looked up at her trying to hide a giggle and soon they were laughing in harmony.

* * *

It was soon afterwards that Sherlock exited the building, wrapped up in his coat and scarf. It didn't take him long to arrive at 221b Baker street. John sat at the table with two cups of tea in front of him. Sherlock entered the kitchen and picked one up, his coat and scarf already removed.

"Morning," John said before putting his lips to the mug. He swallowed before asking, "St Barts again?"

The detective nodded.

"Was Molly there?" John inquired with a smile.

"Yes, why?"

"Just wondering."

Recently Sherlock had been seeing a lot more of the shy pathologist. Of course the detective himself was oblivious, but John had noticed. It had all started last Christmas, when Molly had arrived at the gathering dressed beautifully. Sherlock had humiliated her in front of everyone, which lead to him genuinely (which is something Sherlock never does) Through the last year Sherlock had tried to be nicer towards her. Suddenly, during the last two months, her name crept up in many conversations, and a copy of Molly's working hours had been found on Sherlock's desk. He was adamant it was for case reasons only, but the doctor was still suspicious.

Sherlock sat on one of the ancient kitchen chairs and sipped his tea. The men engaged in conversation about Sherlock's most recent experiment, and it wasn't long before they were interrupted by a mobile ringtone. Lestrade's name flashed onto the screen, and the phone was instantly picked up.

"What have you got for us?" Sherlock asked urgently. It had been weeks since their last case, and the boredom had started to take effect. He stood and left the kitchen.

"A man, quite young. Found dead by his girlfriend in their home on Cumberland Street. She said she'd left him asleep on the sofa when she went out last night, and when she went to wake him up this morning he was dead. There's been no break in, and his body is woundless. We're going to question the girl and look for identification but we need you here Sherlock. Be as quick as you can."

There was a mumble in the background and Lestrade hung up.

John was still sat at the table though there were only drops left in his mug. His mind was wandering. Despite Sherlock's boredom, John was in a good mood. He's been dating an astrophysicist whom he'd met during a recent case. She'd already met Sherlock, and hadn't run out crying at his deductions like most of his dates had. She'd even been able to make his 'sociopathic' flatmate laugh on a couple of occasions. He was still thinking about her when a head covered in familiar curly hair peered round the corner.

"Get dressed. We've got a case," Sherlock said with a grin.

"But I've got a date with Naomi today!" He answered, but the mob of curly hair had gone.

When John entered the living room half an hour later -washed and dressed- Sherlock was back on the phone to Lestrade.

"...Alright...No, tell Anderson to stay away...I don't care, you have plenty of other forensics...oh, well I see your point...fine, if he must..."

He glanced at John and spoke into the phone again.

"We'll be there soon. Don't let Anderson touch anything," He said quickly and hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately: I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise.**

**Authors note: I'd just like to give a HUGE thank you to those who reviewed, you were all really nice :) This is the second chapter, and I've got my fingers crossed that you like it just as much as the first. **

By the time Sherlock and John arrived at 32 Cumberland Street, the narrow road was crowded. Police cars covered every inch of the curb; and forensics were walking in and out of the open door which lead to their new crime scene. Sherlock frowned when he saw Anderson talking to Lestrade. He started to stride over and beckoned for John to follow him.

"Sherlock! It's about time!" Lestrade shouted over "What took you so long?"

"My flatmate dresses at the pace of a teenage girl," Sherlock replied, and ignored John's offended look at him. He glanced at Anderson darkly.

"Anderson," He grunted.

"Sherlock. Not going to accuse me of cheating on my wife today?"

"Be careful what you wish for. You're wearing a forensic suit, but your shirt collar isn't covered and is showing a very obvious ketchup stain. It would have come out in the wash, so it's not been there long. It's also creased, proving that you're wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Lestrade, what time did Anderson arrive here and when did you call him?"

"About twenty minutes ago; and just before I called you."

"Ah! So it took you just over ten minutes to get yourself here; which is unusual, since you live on the other side of London…but then again, Sally doesn't live far from here, so that explains why your journey wasn't long."

"Maybe I was staying with a friend," The forensic defended himself.

"Oh Anderson…we all know you don't have many friends."

They left Lestrade and Anderson outside and went to inspect the body. The flat was filled with police and forensics, but space was made for the two men when they walked through the door. The flat wasn't huge, but it wasn't cramped either. Paintings hung on the pale blue walls, and the furniture sat on wooden floors. Two shiny white doors, leading to the kitchen and bathroom, were at one side, and a door leading to bedroom was on the other. A bookcase covered an entire wall, filled with old classics and art books. A piano leaned against the wall adjacent to it and a TV stood beside a modern coffee table; facing a leather sofa, on which the corpse of a young man was lay.

John thought the room was nice, despite the dead body, but he knew his talented friend had seen so much more, just with one glance.

Sherlock knelt down beside the couch and inspected the man's corpse. Just like Lestrade said, there were no wounds on his body. The man was wearing a grey and black, stripy t-shirt and dark denim jeans. He wore no shoes, and polka dot socks covered his large feet. His hair was brunette, and flopped over his closed eyes.

"Early twenties, left handed. Had a habit of biting his fingernails. He dreamt of being an artist but was studying cooking. Probably because his parents wanted him to take over the family business."

He looked over at John who stared at him blankly. The detective sighed and elaborated.

"He looks no older than twenty-five. The mug on the coffee table has it's handle pointing on its left side, so he's left handed. His hands have smudges of graphite on them and the painting on the wall is obviously hand made by him. The books on the bookcase also prove my point - art books. There is a tiny food stain on his t-shirt, which suggests he was cooking at university yesterday."

"What if he cooked at home" Anderson asked smugly, walking into the room with Lestrade.

"Look around you imbecile! Pizza boxes. Empty pizza boxes. They had a take away last night. I suggest you keep your mouth shut next time Anderson."

Lestrade and John both looked over to the embarrassed man, shaking their heads.

"Take a glance at the bookcase again," Sherlock instructed, pointing directly at a picture frame which stood next to some books.

"He's with his parents, outside a restaurant- a.k.a – the family business."

John strolled over to the frame to get a closer look. His eyes flickered to the set of books beside it and pulled one out.

"You're right," He said smiling, holding the book up in the air "Food studies text book, dog-eared and battered within an inch of its life. Often used."

Sherlock nodded and started to pace the room.

"But how was he killed?" John asked "He has no wounds,"

"Keep up John, you're better than this. If he wasn't killed from the outside then he was-"

"Killed from the inside," The doctor finished his sentence for him. "Drugged?"

"Possibly," answered Sherlock.

"What if it was suicide?" Lestrade spoke up.

"That's likely, he could have-" John was interrupted by his irritating flatmate, who was now knelt beside the body once more, and looking at a receipt.

"No," He stated stubbornly.

"Why not? John asked.

"This is a receipt for an engagement ring, John."

Sherlock stood and started searching the flat. Normally someone would protest, but everyone knew he had good reason for his ransacking. It didn't take him long to locate a small navy box hidden inside the piano. He opened it and held it out to John. The ring was beautiful. It had a silver band, and was decorated with a single diamond.

"What is this? Nine carats?"

"Nine carats exactly John, your knowledge on diamonds impresses me."

"But this must of cost him-."

"Nine hundred and ninety nine pounds according to the receipt," Sherlock interrupted. He closed the box and walked over to Lestrade, "I don't think it's likely that a man would plan to propose to his girlfriend and spend such an extravagant amount of money on a ring, if he was planning to kill himself. Do you?"

Lestrade looked to the floor, embarrassed. After searching the flat for identification, a wallet was found in a coat pocket. Sherlock stood in the living room, palms pressed together and held against his lips. John leaned against a wall beside Lestrade. The body had been taken away to St Barts and police were starting to leave.

"Toby Harvard. Twenty three years old. Studied at Richmond University," Lestrade read from the cards in the wallet.

John's phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and smiled at the name on the screen. He turned his head to Sherlock, who was motionless and deep in thought.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are we going now?"

"I need to go to St Barts."

"Do you want me to come?"

"I suspect you have other plans?" Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's hand, still holding his phone.

"Thanks, I'll see you later," John waved at Lestrade and left the flat. He couldn't have moved faster.

* * *

Molly was walking down the corridor when she heard a familiar deep voice behind her.

"Hello again."

She jumped in surprise and turned to see Sherlock walking towards her.

"Oh, hi Sherlock, how can I help you?"

Sherlock hesitated before speaking.

"You...assume I want something?"

"Of course, you only speak to me when you want something," Molly answered matter-of-factly.

Sherlock was stunned. She was smiling, but he could see the sadness deep in her eyes. Those eyes. He'd never noticed how much they sparkled before, as cliché as it sounded. A feeling inside Sherlock stunned him; guilt? He felt like hugging the fragile girl before him. He shook his head slightly, trying to shake off his ridiculous thoughts, and continued as if nothing had happened.

"Well, actually, I need information on Toby Harvard. I believe he's on your list?"

"The man found this morning? I was about to get to him now."

"Excellent," Sherlock said smiling, and started down the corridor, beckoning for Molly to follow.

* * *

"Poison?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair and thought things through. Molly was zipping up the bag which contained the body of Toby Harvard.

"So he was poisoned, oh this is interesting."

"Yes, arsenic strangely. Do you want a coffee Sherlock?" Molly asked.

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He looked up from the floor.

"Do you want a coffee?"

"Oh yes please," he replied, "In fact, I'll come with you, and then I need to find John."

He stood from his chair and grabbed his coat. Molly was stunned, though she couldn't decide what to be stunned over; the fact that he wanted coffee with her, or the fact that he'd said please.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise.**

**Authors note: Once again, thank you so much for reading, reviewing, following, favoriting, or even just clicking on this :) All the reviews are really positive, and i'm really grateful. I'm trying to keep Sherlock in character as much as possible throughout this fic, but i'm sorry in advance if I can't. Here's the third chapter, hope you like it :D**

It was nearing lunchtime when John entered Hyde Park. He looked around, and soon saw her. She had her back to him, dark hair curled for the occasion. She wore her favorite maroon duffle coat.

"Naomi!" He called from the entrance.

She turned, revealing a stripy, turtle-neck jumper that she wore under her coat, and skinny jeans, tucked into tall brown boots. She smiled a smile which left John breathless, and started to walk towards him.

When they met, their hands entwined together and they shared a small kiss.

"Hello again," John whispered.

Naomi let go of one hand so they could walk together. They chatted casually for a while, and soon the topic of Sherlock came up.

"So how is your brilliantly strange flatmate?" She asked.

"He's okay I guess. Lestrade gave him a new case this morning which will keep him busy."

"Well that's good. Better than him moping around all the time. What's this case about anyway?"

"A man was found dead in his flat this morning. We think he was drugged."

"Or poisoned," A third voice spoke.

The couple jumped, and turned to see Sherlock stood behind them.

"Sherlock! You have to stop doing that to people!" John snapped whilst his friend smirked, "Wait, what do you mean poisoned?"

"I went to St Barts," Sherlock answered. "Molly identified what had killed him. Arsenic poisoning."

"And you're sure it wasn't a suicide?" John asked.

"We've been through this. He was planning to propose. Keep up John."

"He was planning to propose?" Naomi gasped, "That's awful."

"Indeed. Now I need your assistance," Sherlock turned to his flatmate.

"But I'm on a date."

"So?"

"So, I've already made plans with Naomi. I'm not going to drop them for your case," John exclaimed.

"You can have your date any time; this is important."

"He's right John. Go help him, we can do this later," Naomi expressed.

He looked over at her and raised his eyebrows. She nodded back at him, and with a quick hug and wave goodbye Sherlock and John were exiting the park.

"Where are we going anyway?" John asked curiously.

"Cumberland Street," The detective answered, "We need to chat with someone."

"Who?" John enquired.

Sherlock reached the edge of the pavement.

"Kathy Davids."

* * *

"Kathy Davids?" John urged as they got into a cab.

"Yes; Toby Harvard's girlfriend," Sherlock closed the door behind him. "Cumberland Street," He directed the driver.

"Oh, of course, I forgot about her," John murmured, but his flatmate heard.

"Unsurprising really, ordinary minds are easily distracted. Especially when certain women are willing to give you their undivided attention."

"Sherlock," John laughed, "One day you'll understand how love works. Someday soon."

"I don't need to understand. Love and emotion are our weaknesses John," Sherlock replied, though he looked out of the cab window, refusing to meet his friend's gaze.

John smirked._ He really is oblivious isn't he?_

The detective's mind retraced back to St Barts with Molly, where he felt guilty for the first time in a while.

_What's wrong with me? I'm not supposed to feel these…emotions. Especially for someone like Molly_, he thought He was brought out of his deep thinking when John spoke up again.

"I thought the police had already spoken to Kathy."

"Yes," Sherlock responded, "but we both know that the police are never thorough."

The detective gave him knowing smile and after a few minutes of comfortable silence, the cab pulled up at Cumberland Street. The two men sneaked into the building while an elderly lady was exiting, and knocked on the first door on the second floor. They waited patiently, and soon the door opened slowly to reveal a young woman with a frightened expression. She was undoubtedly pretty, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. But these eyes were outlined with red circles and tear tracks ran down her face. Her hair was matted and needed a brush, and her clothes were creased and stained. When she spoke, her voice was cracked, and broke twice in the same sentence.

"What do you want?" She asked.

John went to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Hello, Miss Davids. We need information on your boyfriend - Toby Harvard."

She leaned against the wall and breathed heavily.

"Look, Kathy," John spoke up, "We know this must be hard, but any information you have could help us find Toby's killer."

"Toby's killer? They told me it was suicide!"

"Then we have some news for you," Sherlock replied. He barged past her into the blue living room.

* * *

They told Kathy about the arsenic poisoning. She started off calm but soon interrupted.

"What makes you think that he couldn't have poisoned himself?"

The two men turned their heads to each other and then back at her.

"This morning," John explained, "we were identifying Toby's body when we found a receipt in his pocket. It was for an engagement ring. We found it hidden in the piano. It's very unlikely that he would have taken suicide when he had...certain plans."

Kathy's heart started pounding in her ears. She started to feel faint, and Sherlock could see her shaking.

"He was going to propose?" She asked, trembling. Tears started to run down her cheeks, replacing the dried tear tracks from earlier.

"I'm so sorry," John went over to comfort her. She cried on his shoulder until they became silent sobs.

"Fine, I'll help you. Toby was kind and sweet. He wasn't only my boyfriend, he was my best friend!"

Her voice broke, and she started sobbing again.

"Can you tell us about his relationships? Friends? Enemies?" Sherlock asked.

"He was friends with practically everyone," She whispered, "But he was in a social group. There was Ben, Harry, Kevin, Sam-"

"Any enemies?" The detective interrupted, growing impatient.

"I don't know...wait...there's one I can think of. Aaron Jones. Toby and his friends used to bully a lot of the smart students back in secondary school and he was their main victim. He was bullied by everyone really. But then Toby changed, and he apologised, though Aaron never forgave him."

Sherlock sat back, thinking deeply.

"You don't think Aaron is his murderer, do you?" Kathy stood from her seat, looking deeply into his eyes.

"You told us that Toby's friends also bullied him," Sherlock stated, ignoring her question.

"That was years ago! They were children; stupid kids."

"That's not my point, Kathy. Let's say that this 'Aaron' person_ is_ the murderer. If he killed Toby for his bullying, he'll probably target his friends aswell,"

"What makes you so sure?" Kathy urged.

"I've been bullied, Miss Davids. The desire for revenge is unbearable, and it doesn't always fade."

"But how will we know when he will attempt to kill the others?" Kathy was becoming very worried now.

"Well, we can't prove that it_ is_ him yet, but if it is, he'll probably try again at that university party that Toby didn't want to go to,"

Kathy's eyes widened and practically popped out of her head.

"The invitation on the kitchen counter" Sherlock explained, "Someone has doodled on it, so they didn't take any interest in its information. The pen has been lay on the left hand side of the flyer and whilst you are right handed Toby used his left. He obviously didn't care about this party, thought it was childish maybe?"

"How could you possibly know he thought that?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Because it is childish," He stated, "Were you planning to go to this event, Miss Davids?"

"I was, but then...this happened," She answered, motioning to the sofa, where the body of her boyfriend was long gone.

John walked through the door, the invitation in his hands. Sherlock hadn't noticed he'd left the room.

"The event is tomorrow night, 8:00pm," John read out, and then turned to his flatmate, "I'm guessing you intend to go to this thing?"

"Of course. A crowded room filled with classes of students and one murderer. Christmas has come early!" Sherlock's eyes sparkled at the thought of adventure and danger. Kathy's sharp intake of breath was easy to hear despite the excitement coming from the detective. They both looked over and immediately realised Sherlock's mistake.

"Not good?" he asked.

"A bit not good, yeah," John answered.

Half an hour later the men were about to leave the flat. They had gained as much information as possible from Kathy and persuaded her to attend to event. John scanned the invitation one last time before they exited, and noticed something that he hadn't before.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"This is a couples party,"

"Meaning?"

"We need dates,"

Sherlock froze. Of course! Why hadn't that occurred to him? How was he supposed to find a date at a days' notice? He didn't know many females (that he got along with) and he couldn't exactly take Mrs Hudson to a student party.

"I guess I could take Naomi, but what about you?" John asked.

The detective turned to the blubbering blonde, and smiled sympathetically.

"Thank you for all your help Kathy, and I'm so sorry for your loss."

John's jaw dropped at his flatmates politeness, but after he gave his own condolences and said goodbye, they were back on the streets of London, hailing a cab. Back in the flat, Kathy was sitting down with a fresh cup of tea, when she noticed a small navy box on the coffee table. She put down her mug and -hands shaking- opened it. The sight of the ring brought new tears to her eyes. She cradled the box in her hands, and sat motionless for hours.


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter 4**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise. **

**Authors note: Hello again :) Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting - i'm surprised you're not all bored yet. This is the fourth chapter, and it's pretty obvious what's going to happen. Hope you like it :) **

Sherlock and John sat on the narrow sofa in their untidy living room. Both were deep in thought. Sherlock was thinking about the case. They had required a hefty amount of information. He entered his mind palace, sorting it all out. John was thinking about Naomi. He remembered their meeting from earlier, and couldn't help but smile.

The detective stood and left the room. A minute later he returned with a large whiteboard of which he'd stolen from Scotland Yard. He wrote 'TOBY HARVARD' in the middle and created a spider diagram, speaking as he wrote.

"So Toby Harvard was dating and living with Kathy Davids...He had a circle of friends, who all made an enemy of Aaron Jones."

John spoke up, "Do we know _how _he managed to poison him?"

"Probably put a few drops into his drink whilst his back was turned," Sherlock answered, still staring out the whiteboard.

"So what is he going to do tomorrow night? Add some arsenic into the punch bowl when nobody is looking?" John said sarcastically.

"Maybe. We'll have to see, won't we?"

The detective sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands.

"Who am I going to take to this event John? We need to be in couples to enter, and we need to blend in."

"You could ask anyone. You don't need to actually like them," replied John.

Sherlock's eyes brightened with an idea.

"Why don't we pretend to be couple? That would cause a lot less hassle-"

"No!" John interrupted quickly, "People already think we're more than friends."

Sherlock tried to protest, but his attempts were rendered unsuccessful.

"What about Donovan?" John suggested.

"Sally Donovan?"

"Yes."

Sherlock scoffed. He had better taste than Sally Donovan at least.

"It's just for the case," John stated.

"I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than even _pretend _to go on a date with that sorry excuse of a human being,"

John rolled his eyes. Fortunately Sherlock hadn't noticed.

The detective closed his eyes and prayed that John wouldn't suggest the name he was thinking of himself.

"What about Molly? His flatmate asked.

Sherlock inwardly groaned. He usually wouldn't mind taking Molly, but the fact that she'd made Sherlock feel guilty and sympathetic earlier made him uncomfortable around her.

"Come on Sherlock, what's wrong with Molly?" John inquired, "She kind, considerate, and a good laugh. She's quite attractive too, if I'm going to be honest."

The confused man beside him turned on the sofa.

"You think Molly's attractive?"

"Doesn't everyone?" John queried.

Sherlock leaned back on the sofa. He thought back to when he last saw Molly with other people. He remembered the way others looked at her, and realised John was right. Lestrade always gave her puppy eyes, and Anderson was constantly flirting with her (though she mostly never noticed). The detective breathed heavily and looked over at his friend, who had started speaking.

"I know you think yourself as some sort of sociopath, but I thought even _you _had wondered how Molly is 31 and still single,"

Sherlock grunted.

"So will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Don't play dumb Sherlock; invite Molly," John urged.

The now obviously defeated detective sighed and muttered one word.

"Fine."

He stood and walked to the door, putting on his favoured coat and scarf. A minute later, John sat alone in the flat, and smile playing around his lips.

* * *

Molly couldn't help but feel depressed as she walked through the deserted corridors of the morgue. She'd had a bad day. A child had been brought in after being found dead in a garage. Turned out he had been severely beaten. Then at lunch, an acquaintance had asked about Jim.

_ Jim_, Molly thought. She missed him. She didn't miss Moriarty, the heartless, psychopathic murderer, but Jim, the sweet and shy –and homosexual- man from IT, who had messaged her on her blog and asked her out for coffee. They were the same man, but yet not the same. Molly struggled to wrap her head around the whole situation.

Even if she had fancied Jim/ Moriarty for a short space of time, it didn't change the fact that she was still head over heels in love with the most arrogant man on the planet. Molly inwardly scolded herself.

_Billions of men on Earth Molly, and you fall for Sherlock Holmes? The man you had spent ages finding a present for, and still managed to humiliate you at bloody Christmas time?_

The now even more depressed pathologist arrived at her lab and opened the door. The lights were on, but Molly was too deeply drowned in her own thoughts to notice the tall, dark haired man sat at the counter.

He watched silently as she picked up some documents and began to cross the lab. She screamed at the sight of him, paper scattering everywhere. The now terrified pathologist leaned on the counter-top as she waited for her heart rate to go back to normal. Sherlock stood from his stool and picked up the documents, a smile growing on his lips.

"I apologise for startling you," He said softly.

Molly looked up at him and started mumbling.

"It's fine, don't worry. I should have been more aware."

"What were you thinking about?" The detective asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Molly, you were obviously deep in thought. What's troubling you?"

Molly smiled at his question. His eyes were watching her intently, a serious expression on his face. He looked as if he really did care, and wasn't asking to be polite. Sherlock couldn't help but notice her breath-taking smile.

_ Breath taking? _Sherlock asked himself, _what's wrong with you Sherlock? You've never looked at this girl twice, and now you're describing her as breath taking? This is John's fault._

"Nothing much, just thinking about…random stuff," Molly answered, interrupting Sherlock's silent panic attack. He nodded and handed her the documents.

"I came to ask you something,"

"Okay, what do you need?"

The detective paused. He noted that he should really stop asking Molly for so many favours.

"I need to attend a university dance to finish my newest case. I need to be accompanied to fit in, and I was hoping that you would…join me at the event."

Molly felt as if she was about to faint.

"You mean…as your date?"

"John says a date is when two people go out and have fun, so yes, sort of. Though we'd only to be there for case involved purposes only," Sherlock answered.

_Of all the people he could have asked, and he invites me?_ The now ecstatic pathologist was almost giddy, though she managed to stay calm.

"So will you?" Sherlock urged.

Molly nodded and was almost certain she saw Sherlock grin slightly.

"I'll text you the details," He said as he turned to walk out the room. He took one more glance at Molly's surprised face before pushing open the door.

An hour later, Molly's phone beeped as she was zipping up a corpse.

**Tomorrow night, I'll be at your flat at 8:00pm. Wear something formal -SH**

She smiled with excitement. She hadn't been to a party in ages. The phone beeped again.

**Wear lipstick -SH**

* * *

Sherlock was brought out of deep thought when a fresh mug of tea was placed before him. He looked up to a pitying smile from his flatmate.

"You haven't spoken or moved in two and a half hours," John stated.

"Thank you, I'll sleep much better tonight with that information," Replied the detective sarcastically.

"Instead of being an arse, why don't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Sherlock…"

"Stop what?"

"Refusing to admit you have emotions, and right now you're in denial _because_ of said emotions!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock stood from his favoured armchair and turned to his friend.

"You don't seem to understand that I'm a highly-"

"-functioning sociopath. Yes, you've mentioned," John interrupted. He went to leave the room, but stopped at the doorway.

"I really hope that one day, you'll realise that you haven't got a heart of stone. Believe it or not, you _are _a human being; and _as_ a human being you feel emotions. Happiness, pain...love. You strut around London with your head held high, thinking that Sherlock Holmes has trained himself to never feel anything. Instead, you trained yourself to not_ recognise_ your feelings. You're a detective, and if you didn't feel or care you would be just like Moriarty. But you obviously care about people. You care about Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, hopefully me, and most importantly- Molly. We all see the way you look at her, Sherlock. We all see the way you look at others when they look at her. So you can sit here for hours, days, months in denial about the way you feel, or you could put on your tux, pick up Molly tomorrow night and take her to this damned party. Not just for the case, but because you _want _to go there. You _want _to spend time with her. If this was just about the case you would have invited Mrs Hudson."

As John walked out after his speech Sherlock stood stunned. He replayed his words in his head, and then replayed them again.

_Molly? He thinks I'm falling for Molly Hooper?_

Then Sherlock really thought about it. He remembered the sympathy he had felt for her. The aching feeling in his stomach when she looked at him. The constant image of her in his head, her name at the tip of his tongue. The copy of her work hours lying in his desk drawer.

The detective collapsed into his armchair, eyes bulging.

_Am I falling for Molly_ _Hooper?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise. **

**Authors note: Hello...again. Hope the quick updates are okay. Like usual, thanks so much for reading and reviewing, your support means a lot :) Here's the fifth chapter, it's definitely not the best, but I hope you like it anyway...enjoy :D**

Every formal item of clothing that Molly owned were spewed and scattered around her confined bedroom. Of course, there wasn't a lot, since Molly wasn't rich and was far from girly. She'd tried on all her dresses, wanting to look perfect for the most gorgeous man in London. At that moment she was stood in her underwear, looking round her room frantically. Starting to panic, she searched her drawers, and came across a box of clothes given to her by her mother. There, folded neatly at the top of pile, was a familiar looking piece of black fabric. It unfolded as Molly picked it up to reveal a sleeveless black dress with a dip hem. The now relieved pathologist instantly recognised it as the dress he mother had worn on the first date with her father. She slipped it on gently, and looked in the tall mirror by her door. The dress was beautiful, and fit her perfectly. She placed her feet into a set of small heels, minimal make-up already applied, and left her hair down, falling past her shoulders in waves. One final glance at the mirror assured Molly that she looked presentable.

_Doesn't matter anyway, I'm sure he'll criticise me however I look_, Molly thought with a frown.

At exactly 8:00pm, the bell rang. Molly, quite surprised at his punctuality, opened her door. The man stood anxiously behind it took Molly's breath away. Sherlock Holmes stood in his usual coat, but he wore an immaculate tuxedo underneath. His shoes were polished, and his curly hair combed. His eyes widened at Molly's own appearance, which made her inwardly grin. She smiled nervously at him, and spoke softly.

"Good evening, Sherlock."

"Yes, it is," he replied, "Ready to go?"

Molly grabbed her smartest blazer off the coat rack and turned out the lights. After locking the door, she followed Sherlock to a waiting cab. Inside sat John and a friendly looking woman of whom Molly did not recognise. She wore a short violet dress with long sleeves. The taxi was big enough for all four of the adults, so Molly wasn't squashed.

"Richmond University," Sherlock called out to the driver.

* * *

Sherlock sat quietly on the journey, completely content. Molly looked stunning. Her hair was wavy and silk-like. The dress, obviously handed down by her mother, complimented her figure. She wore a small amount of make-up, though it wasn't needed. After a lot of thought about John's speech, the detective had realised he did feel something for Molly. Sherlock's current state of nervousness only proved this.

He looked over to John, who was whispering something in Naomi's ear. She giggled, and rested her head on his shoulder. Sherlock felt a twinge of jealousy.

_I wonder if Molly and I would ever be like that._

After the realisation that he was on a case hit him, Sherlock placed all his Molly thoughts in a room in his mind palace, and locked the door.

_The case is what matters right now. Concentrate Sherlock. Don't let these ridiculous feelings cloud your head of what's important._

The cab was silent for the rest of the journey. Molly stared up at the full moon through the window and John kept his hands locked with Naomi's. Sherlock forced himself to keep his head on the case.

Once they arrived at Richmond University, formally dressed students were entering through a set of immense double doors. Sherlock took Molly's hand, much to her surprise, and lead her to said doors. He needed to fit in, and to achieve this he had to act human. However, he was shocked at how nice it felt to entwine his fingers with the pathologist's.

They followed others to a large hall decorated with cliché paper chains and tinsel. A huge Christmas tree stood in one corner, and a stage holding an amateur band was stood at another.  
The four adults stood awkwardly at the door, until John spotted Kathy and they raced towards her. She was dressed in a tight, green dress and flat shoes. Her hair was brushed, though not styled, and no make-up had been applied. She pointed to a young man with short brunette hair. He wore glasses, and his grey suit clashed with a turquoise shirt and red tie.

"Aaron Jones," She stated.

Sherlock nodded.

"We'll have to keep an eye on him the whole night."

"We can take turns," John suggested, "Naomi and I will keep watch on him now, and then we'll text you when it's your turn."

"What do we do until then?" The detective asked.

"You can dance, mingle, have a good time," His friend answered with a smirk.

Sherlock turned to Molly, who looked back at him pityingly. John and Naomi took their positions near the buffet.

"Isn't anyone going to get suspicious? I mean, we don't exactly look like students," Molly asked.

"Their security isn't of the best quality," Sherlock answered, "Obviously, since a student is running round the place with arsenic in his pockets."

The pathologist nodded, and the couple stood awkwardly for a few moments. When a slow song started to play, Sherlock developed some courage and was the first to speak.

"Shall we dance? We'll blend better if we do."

"Okay," Molly replied, butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

The detective took her hand once again and led her to the dance-floor. As planned, they blended beautifully with the other couples. Sherlock locked his arms around Molly's tiny waist, as she locked her own around his neck. They fit like jigsaw pieces, swaying slightly in unison.

_Just when I thought he couldn't get any better, he turns out to be a wonderful dancer_, Molly thought.

"I attended dance classes up to the age of thirteen," Sherlock stated, as if he's read her mind.

Molly grinned up at him, a grin he instantly returned.

"You decided to wear lipstick after all," he said, trying to make conversation.

"I didn't decide, you told me to."

"Well I'm glad you did."

Another few minutes of comfortable silence passed.

"Why aren't you criticising me?" Molly demanded suddenly.

"Criticising you?"

"Yes, you do it all the time. But you haven't said a single, hurtful word tonight. Why?"

"Molly," Sherlock explained, "I never mean to be hurtful, and I never realised my comments affected you so negatively. I've been told I don't have a heart, I don't feel things like a normal human should; but I've noticed that this isn't true. I do feel emotions; I just don't register them or notice that they're there. When I make blunt comments, they are just deductions, not comments on what I think of you. I am so sorry that I've hurt you so much."

Molly felt like kissing him there and then. But thankfully a part of her was thinking rationally.

"Thank you for giving me the chance to understand," she said; because that was all that was needed to be said. Sherlock Holmes had finally opened the gate to his heart, and let someone in.

* * *

After half an hour of dancing and chatting to the students, Sherlock's phone alerted with a text from John.

**No action yet. Your turn, want to dance – JW**

"It's our turn," The detective informed Molly.

They took their positions by the food table and stood silently. They watched the dancers and listened to the band, all the while keeping their eyes on both the punch bowl and Aaron Jones. Sherlock had the urge to take Molly's hand again. To put his arm around her. To hold her. To kiss her.

_Is this normally how people feel when they fall for someone?_

He glanced over at her.

_She looks so beautiful tonight. She always does, but especially tonight. I wish I could tell her. No Sherlock! The case! Keep your head on the case!_

It was around twenty minutes later when Molly finally spoke.

"I need some fresh air. It's so stuffy in here."

Sherlock nodded and his eyes followed her as she exited the hall.

* * *

Molly stood far away from the smokers and admired the moon. She had always loved astronomy, but never took her interest further. This didn't stop her from staring up into the dark sky night after night.

"Beautiful isn't it?" A man beside her said.

Molly nodded, and assumed he would leave her alone.

"I never realised you appreciated the sky's beauty so much, Molly. It's a shame I have to ruin such a wonderful moment."

Molly's head snapped sideways to see who was beside her, eyes locking with his. His familiar lips moved into a sly smirk whilst his name clouded her mind.

_Moriarty._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise...I wish I did, but I don't. **

**Authors note: Hello...I know the cliffhanger was very mean, but I hope this chapter makes up for it. Sherlock is definitely out of character, but he has a good reason for it. Thanks for reading and reviewing, your kind words bring a smile to my face every time I turn on my laptop :) Hope you like this chapter. **

Sherlock stood surrounded by tipsy students. He had one eye on the punch bowl, the other on Aaron, and his mind focused on Molly.

She had been gone for ten minutes. _All she needed was some fresh air_, Sherlock thought. He spotted John walking towards him, Naomi following.

"Where's Molly?"

"She went outside," The detective answered, "But she's been gone for ages."

"I'll go and find her," Naomi suggested, and left the two men alone.

"So, how are things going?" John questioned.

Sherlock didn't answer, but his cheeks tinted red. John grinned at him, but didn't say anymore on the subject.

"Has this Aaron boy made any move then?"

"Not yet. It's strange; he doesn't appear to have any arsenic on him, unless he's holding it somewhere else. It seems his only goal tonight is to get that ginger girl in his bed."

John smirked, and then stood in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Soon enough, Naomi returned…Molly-less.

"She's not outside, I looked all around the front of the university, but she wasn't there."

"So no one has any idea where she is?" Sherlock asked.

"I asked the smokers if they'd seen a brunette woman in a black dress. They said they had seen her exit the building, but she didn't appear again."

"I have to go and find her," Sherlock stated, "Keep watch on the suspect."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Sherlock," A new voice sang through a speaker behind them. They looked towards the stage, to see Moriarty at the microphone.

He was dressed in a suit, probably Westwood. Hands in his pockets, he grinned at the three of them, white teeth gleaming.

"You see, I warned you, Locky. I said that if you didn't back off, I would burn you. I would burn the _heart_ out of you. I wasn't bluffing."

The hall suddenly went dark, making students gasp. The whole room was either gazing at Moriarty or Sherlock. Two spotlights sprang to life. One on the stage; the other on the panicked detective.

"Of course, I don't want to literally burn your heart. No, that would be disgusting. So I did a lot of thinking, and I thought 'Why not burn the person inside Locky's heart?' But of course, you don't love people, do you? At least, you say you don't."

Moriarty pulled the microphone out of the stand and paced up and down the stage whilst he continued.

"Then one very special lady came along. She stole your heart like no other woman could. I was quite surprised actually. _Sherlock Holmes falling for a simple, boring pathologist? Well I'll be damned!"_

Sherlock started to run to the stage in fury, but John restrained him.

"Johnny boy! It's been a while, how are you?" Moriarty exclaimed with a sly smile.

"Where is she?" Sherlock muttered.

"Do speak up, Locky."

"Where is she?!"

"Well let's take a look, shall we?"

A projector screen was released slowly behind him, and the sight of Molly faded onto it. She was huddled in a corner of a dark storage room. A man stood, towering over her, a lit match in his hand. The image was being taken by a webcam, and the man thumbed up at the camera. Lowering the match down to her bare arm, the flame licked at her pale skin. Molly screamed. Then she screamed again, but Sherlock's name came from her lips. Students in the hall were speechless, and couldn't take their eyes away from the screen. Moriarty looked over at Sherlock, a smile playing around his lips. Tears ran down the detective's cheeks, his eyes locked on the girl on the screen. The image faded, and Moriarty lifted the microphone to his face.

"See, I'm very clever Locky. I set this whole case up just to get you here. A perfect place really. You would obviously bring Molly, and then all I had to do was get her alone. It was so easy! Oh, and congratulations, Aaron, you're off the hook."

Aaron, now completely confused, looked between the enemies. Kathy, on the other side of the hall, spoke up in rage.

"YOU HAD MY BOYFRIEND KILLED FOR THIS?! YOU MONSTER!"

Moriarty rolled his eyes and turned back to Sherlock.

"So, all you have to do now is find your little Molly. But find her quick Locky, because if you take too long, there might not be much left," He said, shrugging his shoulders.

The screen turned on again, this time to show the man slapping Molly's terrified face and getting a box of matches out of his pocket. He showed them to the camera and lit one. The image cut off just as he leant over the girl. Sherlock screamed in his baritone voice, which was cracked and hoarse.

"I'll give you until midnight to find her, Locky. Better hurry...before this all blows up in your face,"

Moriarty left the stage and with a wave he exited the hall. Sherlock fell to his knees with emotional exhaustion. The hall was completely silent. No one spoke. No one moved. No one even dared to breath. After a moment John knelt down next to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. Startling everyone, the detective jumped up and into action.

He paced up and down, ignoring everyone around him.

"She could be anywhere. Wait…no, this is Moriarty. The place isn't random. It will be a place which one of us has an attachment to. I'll have to contact Mycroft, see if he can track her down," He got his phone out of his pocket and starting texting at the speed of sound.

John had an expression of concern and panic on his face.

"Sherlock…"

"He hasn't answered yet. Why hasn't he answered yet?"

"Sherlock…"

"I should have been more careful, oh you stupid, _stupid_ man!"

"SHERLOCK!"

He finally stopped pacing and looked up from his phone.

"Don't worry. We'll find her. You need to calm down. You know you can't think rationally when you're in such a state," John said in a soft and reassuring tone.

Sherlock's eyes, though fixed onto his friend's, were unfocused and glazed with depression and dread.

"I think I love her, John."

"I know."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Disclaimer:I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise...sadly. **

**Authors note: Hello! So, chapter 7, didn't expect to get this far. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, i'm so glad you like this story. I'd like to give a thank you to nnildred for suggesting a very good idea, which I have used :) Hope you enjoy this chapter :D**

It was ten minutes later when Mycroft replied. Sherlock had finally sat down with a lot of persuasion and most of the students had left, their party ruined. The text consisted of an apology and filled Sherlock with disappointment.

**I couldn't track her down, brother. Sincere apologies. I'll try to do all I can – MH**

The hate that filled the detective at that moment was staggering. He hated Moriarty. He hated Mycroft. He hated that bastard with the match who was burning his heart alive. He hated everyone and everything. Apart from Molly.

His phone alerted again and he opened the text.

**Surprised you ran to your big brother for help, Locky. I'm quite disappointed actually – M**

The only party-goers who had stayed were Kathy and Aaron. It turned out that the latter had nothing to do with Toby's death. Sherlock couldn't think straight. With no leads he felt useless.

"Any ideas?" John asked.

"Molly had been gone for ten minutes when the screen turned on. Shows that she can't be far away. That's all I have," The detective answered without emotion.

"She could be at that Barts place," Kathy suggested, "There's lots of rooms in there, and it's not far,"

"Too dull for Moriarty."

"It couldn't hurt to look," John urged.

The detective agreed and soon him and John were sat in a cab. Lestrade had been contacted and along with Naomi and Mycroft he was searching through CCTV footage of all the public buildings nearby.

John looked over at the shaking man beside him and shook his head.

_How could anyone - even someone like Moriarty- do this to them? Molly had become Sherlock's heart, and now it's literally being burned into ashes._

"It's weird," John stated, "I feel like I recognised the room she was in; like I'd been in there before."

Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes searched John's.

"Think John. Where? Try to remember!"

"I'm trying Sherlock. I really am."

"Not good enough!" He shouted as he put his head in his hands.

When they arrived at St Barts the detective ran downstairs to the morgue and barged into every room; and in every room he came out with nothing. When they reached Molly's lab they found a note.

**You really should use your imagination more. The morgue? Boring! You should hurry up before things get explosive – M**

Sherlock turned to John.

"He knew we'd come here. I hate him John. I HATE HIM!"

The detective punched to wall beside him with everything he had. John winced and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"We need to stay calm, Sherlock. We still have two and a half hours left."

"Stay calm?" The detective asked with a deadly calm voice.

"Yes, Sherlock. Don't worry, I understand."

"No you don't! " Sherlock yelled in frustration, "You can't understand! Don't you see? If I can't understand then there's no possible way that you can. I've never felt this way about anyone, John…anyone! I've spent my entire life locking up my feelings because I was scared to face them. But then, some things are too big to keep hidden inside a room in your mind, and love…love is definitely one of them. So, now I'm here, with the one person that I've ever loved being burned alive and I don't know what to do; my mind can't focus when I'm like this."

Sherlock's phone ringtone went off. He pressed the mobile to his ear. Lestrade.

"We've found CCTV footage of a girl being pulled into a large building on Stafford road."

Sherlock hung up and left the lab, John following closely behind.

* * *

Molly opened her eyes. She saw nothing. She heard nothing.

She was surrounded by nothing.

_This is it_, she thought, _I'm dead… I must be._

She groaned in pain as she tried to move. _Surely death shouldn't hurt this much._ She felt an aching in her head, and blood dripping down her upper arms. The air was cold, and she could tell her wrists were tied together behind the uncomfortable chair she sat upon. It took a few minutes for Molly to begin thinking straight.

Then it all came rushing back to her.

Party. Outside. Moriarty. Fire. Pain. Heartbreak. _Sherlock_. A tear fell down her cheek as she remembered the torture she had suffered. Sobbing quietly, she lost track of time. After an eternity, the pathologist heard a door open, and looked up to be blinded by a source of light. A silhouette appeared in the doorway, and the light switch was turned on to reveal Jim Moriarty, his suit pristine and his usual smirk on his face. She saw his expression soften for a second at the sight of her, but the smirk was in place before she could know if it was real. She sat in a large storage cupboard filled with dust, dirt and of course, herself.

"Hello Molly, dear. How have you been?"

She sat silently, her eyes filled with hate. Jim knelt before her.

"Oh, Molly. Don't look at me like that."

"What do you want?" She demanded coldly, watching a smile creep onto his face.

"Well, Sherlock thinks I have you here to send him on a wild goose chase, but would you like to hear a secret?"

Silence greeted him, so the psychopath continued.

"He's right. I_ am_ going to send him on a wild goose chase; but then I'm going to kill him, and you and I can finally be together."

Molly's eyes widened at his statement. His words wouldn't sink in, and she felt herself becoming extremely confused.

"You and I?"

"Of course. At first, I only met you to squirm my way into Sherlock's life. But Molly, my sweet, amazing, beautiful Molly, that completely changed when I first laid eyes on you. You introduced the idea of love, and I knew I had to have you."

"You pretended to be gay."

"Oh, that was just for fun," He replied with a laugh. He cupped her cheek in his large hand and stared intently into her eyes.

"I knew why you ended it – you thought I was gay. But then I realised the other reason, you were in love with Sherlock Holmes. I thought nothing would happen, because that excuse of a man couldn't love anyone. But then he started falling for you. Now this hurt, because I'm so much better. Sherlock would ruin your life and make you miserable. Me, I could make you rich and happy. We could spend the rest of our lives together , Molly. I love you."

"This is a pretty messed up idea of love," Molly said, glancing around herself.

Jim laughed again.

"I guess it is, isn't it. I'm sorry for burning you, sweetheart, but we had to show something to the camera, didn't we? I created a case for the detective, knowing I could get him to take you out, and can I just say- you look gorgeous." He exclaimed, smiling at her bruised and bloody arms.

Molly scoffed, and Moriarty stood from his knelt position. Stepping behind her chair, he untied her wrists, before kneeling in front of her once again.

"Are you ready to spend the rest of our lives together?"

He waited for a matter of seconds, and watched as Molly smiled brightly before leaning in to whisper five, simple words.

"Not in a million years."

* * *

The cab turned onto Stafford Street. Sherlock's heart was pounding as they got out of the vehicle. Although he was anxious himself, John gave a reassuring pat to his friend's back. This calmed neither of them. It had started snowing again, and white slush covered the men's shoes. Without hesitation, Sherlock ran at the double doors, no time to pick the lock.

They were surrounded by darkness. Fingers trembling, Sherlock's hand felt a wall, and soon found what he was searching for. The light switch. The brightness that hit them revealed an immense hall. Scattered crates covered the begrimed floor and the walls were windowless and grey. The hall reminded John of the first time he had met Mycroft, but he knew it wasn't the same place. Sherlock started searching around, looking for Molly between the crates.

He came back with nothing.

John put his head in his hands whist Sherlock kicked the nearest box. A scrap of creamy white paper peeped out underneath.

**Oh Locky, it was too easy to fool you. Pick up a drunk brunette, show her off to your brother's precious cameras. Simple. Speed up Locky, my interest is starting to drown…**

John read the note over Sherlock's shoulder, frowning at the psychopath's strange choice of words. Shock covered his expression whist the detective turned to him hastily with a look of complete agony. This was the moment when John knew.

He knew Sherlock wasn't a sociopath, he knew he was truly in love and he knew the detective wasn't upset because he was losing to Moriarty…he was upset because he was losing Molly. This was enough to make John's blood boil. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders spoke firmly, his military state of mind kicking in.

"Listen Sherlock, we are going to find Molly even if it kills us. We're not going to back down, and we're _definitely_ not going to lose to some psychopathic bastered. I promise you Sherlock, I PROMISE you that before the clock strikes midnight, Molly will be alive and safe."

Sherlock had listened intently to every word, and he nodded. They hurriedly exited the building and got a cab. A cab to Baker street.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise.**

**Authors note: Firstly, I apologise a million times for the long wait. I've had some serious exams, and made the stupid mistake of watching one of the old Doctor Who episodes...now I can't stop. This chapter is****_ definatley _****not the best, but I hope you like it anyway :D**

The living room of 221b was filled with panicked people and a tense atmosphere. John  
sat on the sofa, his hand clasped in Naomi's, whilst Lestrade stood near the doorway and Mrs Hudson offered cups of tea. All had their attention on the stressed detective who paced up and down the room.  
Being used for a webcam call with Mycroft , a laptop had been intentionally placed on the coffee table. Sherlock groaned loudly in frustration and turned to the others.

"John, I can't think straight," He stated, "Get me some."

"Get you some what?" Naomi asked, though John already knew.

"Sherlock, you're already wearing six patches."

"I don't care!"

"Brother, you need to calm down…" Mycroft expressed, but the detective just glared at the laptop.

After a moment, Sherlock strode to his coat and pulled some scraps of paper from the pockets. He pinned them to wall and stood back, holding his hands against his lips. John stood from the sofa to take a look, and saw the notes they had found, along with handwritten versions of Moriarty's texts and his speech from the party.

"There has to be some sort of clue in what he has said," Sherlock stated, "He enjoys this, watching people dance for him. He likes to play games, but this time, I refuse to play along"

John read the notes again, and his eyes widened as he realised what they had been missing.

_"Better hurry…before this all blows up in your face"_

_"You should hurry up before things get explosive."_

_"My interest is starting to drown.._"

He closed his eyes, and the flashback started.

_He stood in the pool with his eyes on Sherlock, Moriarty's annoying voice ringing in his ears._

_"No no no no no, if you don't stop prying…I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."_

_"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock replied._

_"But we both know that's not quite true."_

John turned to his friend, who was still staring at the wall, his fingers trembling with panic.

"What if he's hurt her?" The detective demanded.

"Sherlock…"

"I swear, if that bastered has hurt her-"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"I remember."

"Oh."

The room was silent as Sherlock waited for him to speak. The doctor said two words and they were both sprinting out of the flat, their coats forgotten.

"The pool."

* * *

Tears fell down Jim's cheeks as he pleaded to the women in the chair.

"Please, Molly. I love you so much. I could give you anything you've ever wanted. Just…be with me, please."

Molly shook her head. The psychopath's eyebrows furrowed and he took Molly's hands in his own.

"You love me," Jim stated, "You just won't admit it. You've deluded yourself into thinking you're in love with_ him_, though he'll never be able to give you what I can. He's not human, sweetheart. He's just the shell of a man who will only end up getting killed-"

He was interrupted when Molly freed her right hand and slapped him. An expression of sadness crossed his features before pure anger took over his entire being.

"You bitch!" He screamed, "Fine, you don't want to be with me, but it doesn't matter, since we're going to end up together anyway."

"You might as well kill me," Molly muttered, and Moriarty laughed.

'Stayin' alive' started playing, and the pathologist looked up in confusion. Holding the phone to his ear, Moriarty snapped at the caller.

"What do you want…oh, I see; now things will get interesting…no, I don't want the building surrounded, this time it's personal…cheers Sebastian."

The psychopath hung up and turned back to Molly.

"Looks like your knight in shining armour has arrived."

* * *

Silence filled the empty pool. Everything was still; and the air was thick with tension, as if it was foreshadowing the tragic events that were about to happen. One set of double doors opened to reveal Sherlock Holmes, his fists clenched but a nonchalant expression on his face. He stepped into the cold room, prepared for battle.

"You're very clever…Jim. Thought you'd bring a 'blast from the past'. Didn't realise repetition was your style." He called out.

"It's not usually," The familiar voice sounded through the pool, "But this place has a certain…atmosphere, that I just couldn't refuse."

He entered through the doors on the opposite side. A grin plastered on his face, though dejection glazed his eyes. He wore his one of his usual Westwood suits, and moved with confidence. Sherlock was reminded of the previous time they were here, since everything was the same…with one exception.

The psychopath had an arm around Molly.

Her whole being was trembling as she walked alongside Moriarty. Still clad in her formal dress, the pathologist was obviously cold from the temperature and uncomfortable atmosphere. Sherlock winced at the burn marks on her arms. Her eyes were on the floor, but looked up when she noticed Sherlock's presence, staring at him with relief, longing and complete agony.

She was expecting to die.

Moriarty started to laugh, and the detective glowered at him.

"Well, this is something I never expected to happen," he declared, "I've found Sherlock Holmes' weak spot. Of course, I could still have killed you, but this has made it so much easier."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Is that what you really think? You've found my 'weak spot'?"

Moriarty nodded and forced Molly to turn around, showing off the Semtex duct taped onto the back of her dress. The detective's jaw clenched, and pure anger clouded his mind. Molly turned back.

"Let her go!" He screamed, his baritone voice breaking.

"No."

"Why not? I'm here, you can kill me. Just let her-" Sherlock paused, his mind finally catching up. He deducted the people before him and smiled.

"What? What did I miss?" Moriarty demanded.

"You wouldn't kill her," The detective stated.

"Would I not?"

"No."

"You seem awfully confident."

"Oh, I am. You love her"

The psychopath said nothing, instead just glaring at his enemy. After a moment, he smirked, his mask back in place.

"Very clever, Locky, very clever. I assume you've figured out the rest as well."

"You assume correctly. This entire 'game' of yours was a way of sending me on a wild goose chase, meaning you had plenty of time to declare your love to Molly. You threaten to kill her, though I doubt the Semtex is even real. You obviously have feelings for her, you're standing intentionally close, always in contact. I can see your dilated eyes from here."

Moriarty grinned.

"Well done. I might as well tell you everything now," He shrugged, "Firstly, let me make something clear. Molly is mine. _Mine._ You could never love her the way I do. I got her first, Locky."

"Oh, how childish," The detective sighed as he rolled his eyes.

"Maybe, but it's true," Moriarty replied with a smile, "So, as you've probably predicted, I'm going to kill you, and then me and Molly-"

"Molly and I," Sherlock corrected.

Molly smirked, which went unnoticed by Jim, who was trying to control his irritation. A few seconds passed before he continued.

"Fine. Molly and _I_ will live happily ever after."

"You really are a psychopath, aren't you?"

"Pretty much."

"I presume you've found a new way of killing me, since I've noticed the lack of red dots on my chest," The detective stated.

"Well, I thought I'd do it myself. It would be more personal that way."

Moriarty raised the gun and aimed it at Sherlock's heart.

Molly gasped beside him, her eyes watering and her heartbeat racing. Her chest became tight as she held her breath. Before she could do anything to help, the double doors swung open; John Watson waltzing into the room with his own gun in hand.

"Shoot Sherlock, and I shoot you, Jim." He said confidently, "You have no back up, so I suggest you drop the gun."

Moriarty laughed hysterically.

"Oh your pet! I forgot about your pet. It's a good thing I decided to get one of my own."

This was the cue for Sebastian Moran to enter from the changing rooms behind the confused doctor. He pressed a handgun to his temple, but John refused to lower his arm. Molly glanced around frantically, trying to find some way to both understand and help the situation.

_So Sebastian is pointing a gun at John, John is pointing a gun at Moriarty, and Moriarty is pointing a gun at Sherlock. What can I do?_ She thought.

Suddenly a flashback of childhood self-defense lessons came rushing back to her.

_I've got nothing to lose._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise.**

**Authors note: Only a short chapter, but I shall try to post the next one as quickly as I can. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I'm no self defense expert, but I tried my best. Fingers crossed you enjoy :D**

_Step one - Appear innocent._

Molly placed a hand on Moriarty's arm, causing him to turn and see the smile on her face. A flash of pain crossed Sherlock's eyes, too panicked to realise Molly's plan. The pathologist placed her hands on his waist, caressing his sides seductively as she brought them up his body.

_Step two – Obtain higher ground._

Grabbing the lapels of his blazer, she brought Jim's face down to hers. Moriarty went to kiss her, but gasped as the pathologist turned a hundred and eighty degrees and pulled his arm around her neck, using all her strength to hip throw him onto the tiled floor.

_Step three – Eliminate threat._

Taking the gun from his hand, Molly pointed it at his chest with trembling fingers. Moriarty looked up at her in disappointment, not bothering to try and stand. Her hands shook whilst she took deep breaths, her heartbeat racing.

Meanwhile, John turned to Sebastian and placed his gun in his pocket. He raised his hands in surrender, causing Moran to tilt his head in confusion. Using the element of surprise, John reached out and wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the gun, whilst the other punched Sebastian in the jaw. His opponent screamed in pain. Once the doctor had obtained both guns, he pushed Moran to floor and sat on him, an amused expression on his face.

Sherlock ran over to Molly and stole the gun from her trembling hands. Grabbing Moriarty's tie, the detective pulled him into a standing position, and pushed him roughly against a wall.

"You monster!" He shouted, "You can commit crimes, Jim. You can try to ruin my life. You can strap a bomb to my best friend. You can even try to kill me, but the_ second_ you touch a hair on Molly Hooper's head is the second that you, your Westwood suits and your heart of coal with cease to exist."

Lestrade took this moment to burst through the door, Naomi and a handful of police officers following. A few rushed to Moran, handcuffing him and allowing John to stand and assist Sherlock. By this time, the detective was repeatedly punching the psychopath.

"Sherlock, it's okay," John said soothingly, though his friend continued.

"Sherlock…" He tried again.

"Sherlock!"

A hand placed itself on the detective's shoulder, causing him to stop and glance beside him. Molly stood with a calm expression on his face, her eyes begging him to stop. Sherlock relaxed and pulled the pathologist into a crushing hug, tears streaming down his cheeks as kept her small frame held tightly against him. Moriarty slumped against the wall, blood trickling down from his broken nose. Lestrade handcuffed and dragged a half-conscious Moriarty out of the building.

"If they send him to prison, won't he just find a way out again?" Naomi asked curiously.

"Don't worry. He's going to face a lot more than prison," John stated.

Naomi stared at him intently, expecting him to elaborate.

"Mycroft," He explained.

She nodded in understanding. After a few moments, Sherlock finally let go of the girl in his arms, and gazed into her eyes with relief and adoration.

"A Judo hip throw? I assume you were taught in your childhood from experienced professionals. You showed high skill and understanding of what you were doing," He stated, still deducing in his tired state.

"You were taught dance, I was taught Judo," Molly replied, grinning.

"You're staying at Baker Street tonight. I don't want you out of my sight."

Molly agreed, too exhausted to argue.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anyway you recognise.**

**Authors note: Here's chapter 10. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. Hope you like this chapter. Warning - sickeningly soppy fluff. **

"So, I'm going to go straight to bed," John stated, as they entered the living room of 221b, "Hope you're okay, Molly."

"I'm fine. Thanks, John. For everything, I mean." She said kindly for the fourth time that night. She had thanked everyone individually, overwhelmed by the amount of people who had contributed to rescuing her.

John nodded and left for his bedroom, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone. The detective turned to her with a smile, though it didn't touch his eyes.

"Tea?" He offered uncharacteristically.

"Please."

The pathologist sat down on the sofa, needing time to contemplate over the nights events. Jim had been taken away, and the (thankfully fake) Semtex had been pulled from the back of her dress. Her burns had been treated, though her arms were still extremely sore. Sherlock's words danced through her mind.

_"You can even try to kill me, but the second you touch a hair on Molly Hooper's head is the second that you, your Westwood suits and your heart of coal with cease to exist."_

She remembered Jim's statement, insisting that Sherlock was falling for her – a statement she didn't believe at the time. But then Sherlock had saved her, punched a psychopath for her and offered her his home for the night, causing her to become quite unclear on the subject.

Sherlock returned from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in his hand. He handed one to Molly and sat beside her on the sofa. Silence lingering in the air, Sherlock avoided eye contact with the pathologist, though she frequently stole a glance at his tensed form. After a few minutes of awkwardness, the detective set down his tea on the coffee table and, staring at the opposite wall, spoke in a quiet voice.

"Molly, you cannot even begin to understand how sorry I am for what has happened to you tonight. It was all my fault, and I take complete responsibility for the damage it has caused."

"This wasn't your fault, Sherlock. You weren't to know that Moriarty was planning this. You can't know everything," She joked.

"And that frustrates me enormously."

"Why are still so angry? I'm alive, I'm safe, you still have access to the morgue and you don't have to feel guilty," She queried.

Sherlock froze and spun round on the couch, beholding Molly's eyes.

"You think I rescued you for access to the morgue?" He demanded, completely stunned.

She didn't answer.

"Molly, the morgue means nothing to me – _everything _means nothing to me- if you're in danger," He declared, standing up and pacing round the room, "Yes, you're alive. Yes, you're hopefully safe; but that doesn't change the fact that he hurt you! He caused you physical pain and it's taking all I have not to find him and kill him with my own bear hands."

He finally turned to look at her, and seeing her startled expression, he took a deep breath.

"Molly," He tried to explain in a calmer voice, "I'm obviously not good with feelings. I'm terrible at recognising them, and especially at facing them. In recent days, I've been contemplating how I've treated you in the past. I…regret the words I've said to you, since they've lead you to believe I don't like you, when it's quite the opposite. Lately I've noticed how much I want you around me, and how I feel when you are. But then the events of tonight happened, and it opened my eyes to how strong my feelings truly are."

The detective paused, his heart rate increasing with nerves as he tried to say the words he'd never said before.

"Molly, I…"

The pathologist placed her own mug on the coffee table and stood. Advancing towards Sherlock, she cupped his cheeks in both of her hands and gazed into his eyes.

"I love you too, you silly man," She whispered, and pressed her lips against his.

**A/N - So, I don't know whether to finish this story in a few chapters or carry it on, writing about Sherlock and Molly as they become a couple. There will be a lot of Sherlolly fluff if I do ;) Please let me know what you think I should do, thanks :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Sherlock, John, Molly or anyone you recognise.**

**Authors note: Hello again :) A pretty rough chapter, but I hope you like it anyway. Thanks for reading and reviewing :D**

For Sherlock Holmes, the best feeling in the world was the excitement of a new case; the adrenaline that came with the chase, and the triumph that spawned when the case was solved. Ever since his childhood, when the dreams of pirates faded and his talent was realised, the detective had never considered the fact that there may be a feeling he was missing out on.

This all changed when he was kissed by Molly Hooper.

It was gentle at first, though the pressure was firm. After a second, he started to respond, his arms winding around the pathologist's waist. Their lips connected perfectly similar to their bodies, fitting together like pieces of broken glass. The kiss went on, the gentleness turning to passion, and the passion sending shivers down Sherlock's spine and shooting sparks through the rooms of his mind palace. After what seemed an eternity, the pair separated reluctantly, a need for air pulling them apart. Staring into the other's dilated eyes, a smile grew on both their faces.

"Well, that was quite unexpected," The detective whispered.

"Don't pretend like you didn't see it coming," She replied.

He grinned and Molly yawned, leading Sherlock to notice how tired she actually was.

"You've had an extremely long night, follow me."

He led her to his bedroom, Molly eyes widening as he opened the door. _I'm actually stepping over the threshold of Sherlock Holmes' bedroom. Of all the things that happened tonight, this was the most unexpected, _she thought.

"You can sleep in my bed tonight, I'm fine on the sofa. I assume you wouldn't want to sleep in a dress, so feel free to borrow my pyjamas; they're in the bottom drawer. Goodnight, Molly."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

He grabbed his own pyjamas and left. Ten minutes later, A pyjama-clad Molly sat up in the king-sized bed, her eyes on the window. A knock on the door startled her, but she managed to invite them in with a quiet voice.

"I just came in for a blanket," Sherlock paused as he entered the room, noticing Molly's worried gaze at the window, "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"Obviously not."

"It's silly."

"Molly…"

She took a deep breath.

"I'm just a bit…_scared. _I'm being pathetic, I know I am; but I feel like he can still find me,"

Sherlock's expression softened. Closing the door behind him, the detective got into the bed beside the confused woman and switched off the beside lamp.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked.

"I told you I wasn't going to let you out of my sight. I meant it."

He pulled her down and held her against his chest, his body heat and slow breathing relaxing the pathologist. She felt safe in his arms, as he'd intended. After a while, the events of the night caught up with Molly and she started to drift off, though not before the sound of Sherlock's baritone voice whispered in her ear.

"Your hair smells like cherries."

"Good night, Sherlock," She laughed, and they both fell deeply asleep, content in each other's arms.

* * *

John opened his eyes slowly, the sound of a boiling kettle pulling him from his Naomi-themed dream. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

_If I'm the one who makes tea in the morning, then why is the kettle boiling when I'm still in bed?_

Then he remembered.

_Molly._

He trudged down the stairs in his bare feet and stepped into the kitchen, freezing at the sight before him. Sherlock stood by a frying pan, glaring at the eggs within it, whilst Molly was pouring hot water into three cups of tea. Neither one noticed the doctor was there.

"Why haven't they cooked yet?" Sherlock whined impatiently, resembling a child.

"Because we only started frying them about thirty seconds ago, Sherlock. You've seriously never fried eggs before?"

"John always does it."

"And don't you forget it," The army doctor spoke up, making the pair turn to him in surprise. Molly smiled in greeting, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They soon sat at the table with their breakfast. John couldn't help but notice the lack of distance between the detective and pathologist. They sat close together, their shoulders touching.

"So, what are your plans for today, John?" Molly asked politely.

"Visit Naomi probably, you?"

"St Barts. I've got so much paperwork to-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted.

Molly turned to him, a frown placed on her features.

"What?"

"You can't go to work, Molly," He stated, "You were kidnapped last night, and though you're handling it extremely well, I don't think you should go straight back to work."

"I'm fine," She insisted.

"_You _might be, but I just don't feel comfortable with you being so far away."

John's eyes widened at the detective's statement. This was just so…unlike Sherlock. The self-proclaimed sociopath was admitting to caring about someone. This made the army doctor smile.

_Sentiment isn't so bad after all._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John, Molly or anyone you recognise. **

**Authors note: I know it's been a while, and I'm really sorry. Hopefully I can make up for it with a whole load of fluff :) This isn't a perfect chapter, but I tried my best in my half-conscious state. As usual, thanks so much for reading and reviewing. Enjoy :D**

Jeremy Kyle's voice blared out of the television, leading Sherlock, who sat comfortably in his favoured armchair, to scoff frequently at his statements. His eyes often darted to Molly, who sat in the opposite armchair, wearing his t-shirt and focused on the people on the screen. Following ten minutes of persuasion over breakfast, the pathologist had agreed to take the day off.

Sherlock rolled his eyes for the sixth time, causing Molly to speak.

"You made me stay here, Sherlock, so you have to follow the consequences."

"The consequences being daytime television?"

"Yes," The pathologist smiled, before getting up to boil the kettle.

The detective followed her to kitchen, silently refusing to let her out of his sight.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to get kidnapped in the kitchen. You can see me from your chair," Molly exclaimed.

The man simply shrugged and sat at the table. A few moments later, Molly joined him with two cups of tea and a question on her mind.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Are we going to talk about…what _happened_ last night?"

The detective looked up at her words; anger, sadness and guilt clouding his impossibly coloured eyes.

"Mycroft has Moriarty imprisoned, he will do all he can to keep him there and if not, I will personally ensure his life ends. You're safe Molly. I promise you that."

"I know," Molly stated, "I meant what happened afterwards."

"Oh."

The pathologist smiled nervously before continuing.

"What happens now? I mean, are we a…_couple_?" She hesitated on the last word, expecting the detective to cringe. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn't.

"We have grown rather close over the last twenty-four hours," He stated, "And there is no denying that I love you and you love me."

He got up and stepped around the table, kneeling down before Molly.

"But before we go any further, you have to understand that I'm not good with feelings, Molly. You can't expect me to be brilliant with this "couple" thing. I will definitely try my best, but I can't guarantee that I will make you happy."

Molly rested her forehead against Sherlock's and whispered soothingly in her gentle voice.

"Sherlock, I don't care what kind of partner you are. All that matters is that your mine. Just being with you makes me happy…even when you criticise my appearance."

They both laughed, the detective's baritone voice harmonising with hers once again.  
"Well then, Molly Hooper, I would be delighted to be your boyfriend." He murmured, and their lips pressed together in a tender kiss.

* * *

John sat in his armchair, a smug smile pulling at his lips.

"Well, I can't say that I didn't see this coming," He said, standing up and clamping a hand on his friend's shoulder, "Congratulations. It's about time you two got together."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, but couldn't help but grin. Molly had hopped into the shower, and the doctor had come home to an ecstatic flatmate, his expression echoing the face on the wall. The detective had admitted to his relationship with Molly, and now both men were content.

"So where are you taking her?" John asked.

"Excuse me?"

"On a date, Sherlock. Where are you taking her on a date?"

The detective's eyes widened at the realisation that he'd have to take Molly on dates. After a moment, he beamed, noticing that this wasn't an unpleasant idea. He turned back to his friend with excitement glazing his eyes.

"I know just the place."

* * *

A towel-clad Molly exited the bathroom and tiptoed to Sherlock's bedroom, avoiding the two men as she went. Neither of them were to be found. She dried her hair with a hairdryer Naomi had left behind and put on the black dress. It reminded her of the last time she wore it and the terrifying events that happened, but the pathologist knew she couldn't exit the flat in Sherlock Holmes' shirt.

She entered the living room to find the two men waiting for her. Sherlock stood, his eyes wandering over her form, and grabbed his coat. He passed his flatmate's black jacket to him and turned to Molly.

"We're going to your flat so you can pack a bag. I want you to stay here for a few days, is that okay?" Sherlock queried.

Molly nodded, and they exited 221b, stepping out onto the freezing street. Snow was still falling from the evening sky, blanketing the ground and buildings. Sherlock noticed the pathologist shivering and shook off his coat, draping it over her shoulders to fight the cold. She smiled at him gratefully, and sighed in relief as a cab stopped before them.

* * *

Molly Hooper's flat was nothing special. It wasn't large, it wasn't expensive and it certainly wasn't elegant; but it was her home, and she loved every inch of it. The front door opened out into a short, carpeted hallway. An archway on the left hand side lead to the living room, which held a comfy sofa, a small television and a bookshelf filled with endless amounts of novels and textbooks. It also lead to the tiny kitchen. Two doors on the right hand side of the hallway lead to the bathroom and Molly's bedroom. The walls were painted in warm tones and the faint smell of cherries lingered in the air.

The three stepped through the threshold and the pathologist headed straight for the kitchen, intending to feed her cat Toby and boil the kettle. After a refreshing cup of tea, she went to her room to pack a bag. The detective looked over at his friend and winked, pulling a pen out of his pocket to scribble on some scrap paper and passing it to him. He left the flat silently, the oblivious woman still in her room.  
She appeared a while later, her fully-packed bag in hand.

"Where's Sherlock?" She asked.

"He left. Told me to give you this," John answered, holding up the scrap paper.

Molly took the note and skimmed it over, smiling at the words she saw in his chaotic handwriting.

_Taking you for dinner, dress nicely – Sherlock. _  
_P.S – No one is taking you away from me this time._

She handed the note back to John and entered her bedroom once again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Disclaimer: Life decided to be extremely mean, so I don't own anyone you recognise...I know, it's a shame :( **

**Okay, so I don't blame you for hating me. I've lost count of how many weeks it's been and I feel awful. I've had exams, coursework, and some personal stuff going on, but other than that I have no other excuses. I hope this chapter makes up for it, but I highly doubt it. Like always, please read and review (the reviews make me smile) I really hope you don't find this chapter cheesy or cringe-worthy, but I apolojise if you do. Enjoy :D**

"St Barts? What are we here for?" Molly asked, as the cab came to a stop outside the hospital. She wore a white vest and floral skirt, a long, black cardigan keeping her warm under her thick coat.

"Sherlock asked if we could pick up some body parts. He'll be staying home through the next week, so we'll need something to keep him occupied," John explained.

They paid the driver and got out of the vehicle, walking side by side to the entrance of the hospital. When they entered, John followed the pathologist silently to the morgue with smug smirk pulling at his lips. It was when Molly pushed open the door and froze that the doctor grinned wholeheartedly.

The entire room was filled with candles. They lined along the tables and floor, giving the lab a soft and romantic brightness. One table was covered in an expensive dinner cloth, and plates and cutlery had been placed on top with a bottle of wine. They stood with another candle, its flame dancing to the time of the beautiful orchestral piece playing subtly in the background. What drew Molly's attention, however, was not the candles, or the dinner, or the music; but the remarkable man stood in the middle.

He wore his usual attire, though his hair had been combed and he appeared to be nervous, which was rare for the detective. Molly turned around to see John's reaction, but found an empty space behind her. She laughed to herself, before taking a step towards the man before her.

"The lab?" She enquired,

"It was where we first met, and where I have come to know the magnificent person that is Molly Hooper. I found this setting quite appropriate for our first date."

The pathologist smiled and took another step forward.

"Sherlock, this is…" She struggled for the right word, "wonderful."

He advanced towards her and helped her remove her coat. Molly couldn't help but feel smug as she felt his eyes wander her body.

"You look beautiful, by the way," The detective stated, hanging up her coat before making his way back to the table.

He pulled out a stool, motioning for her to sit. Settling into his own chair, they started their meals. Conversation came easily; they spoke about their ambitions and childhoods, their family and friends, but both took extreme interest in hearing about the other's work.

The pathologist, who didn't spend much time with relationships anyway, found that most dates were over when she mentioned her uncommon career choice. She was pleased to notice that Sherlock not only saw no problem in her job, but was fascinated by it. They exchanged stories of abnormal cadavers and remarkable crimes, laughing at the story of the Buckingham Palace visit.

Their knees occasionally brushed under the table, sending tiny sparks through their thrilled bodies. It was nearing eleven when Molly took a look at the clock. Sherlock followed her gaze, and they both sighed at how fast the time had passed. Noticing that their fingers had been intertwined the entire time, neither made any attempt to remove them, but they simultaneously stared down at their empty dessert plates with flushed necks. After a moment, Sherlock raised his head and spoke softly.

"Baker street?"

The other nodded and they grabbed their coats, leaving a lab of candles and dirty dishes for Stamford to clean. He owed the detective a favour. The cab ride home was filled with comfortable silence, the pathologist leaning into Sherlock's side as their fingers were once again entangled.

When they entered 221b, the couple removed their coats and collapsed onto the sofa. Sherlock inwardly thanked his flatmate a million times for going to bed early.

"So, how did I do?" Sherlock queried anxiously.

"It was brilliant, Sherlock. I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet," She answered, amused at his immediate grin, "However, you didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not the queen. Sherlock, it doesn't matter where we are, what we're doing, or why we're there. All I want is to be there with you. We could of stayed in with a Chinese and _Doctor Who _on the telly for all I care."

The detective locked his eyes onto hers for a moment before answering.

"I love you so bloody much, Molly Hooper."

She started to giggle, but was interrupted when Sherlock's lips crushed themselves against hers.

The kiss was different from the others, as the pair were no longer built up with nerves. It was passionate, and soon became heated. It wasn't long before the detective was hovering above Molly on the sofa, their jackets removed - an inevitable fate of their other clothing.

"Sherlock?" Molly murmured against his lips.

"Hmm?"

"I don't sleep with guys on the first date."

This made him pause whilst attempting to remove her vest. He appeared thoughtful for a minute, before smirking down at the woman beneath him.

"Well, technically yesterday was our first date, even if it did go horribly wrong. And if you count all the other times we have spent together, such as at the morgue, and at John's pointless social get-togethers, then this would be far from our first date, wouldn't it?"

The pathologist didn't give him an answer, but Sherlock decided he didn't need one as she pushed him gently off her, removed herself from the sofa and taking his hand, lead him to his room.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognised... Billy is mine though ;)**

**I know, I'm terrible at updating and I'm sorry. This is a bit of a filler chapter and - as you'll see - some of my own interests make an appearance. Hope this makes up for the inexcusably long wait...**

Internally admiring the cosiness of the bed sheets she lay upon, Molly turned over and opened her eyes. She was faced with the bare, pale chest of Sherlock Holmes. She felt his arm wrapped possessively around her waist, and looking up, saw that his eyes were closed and his breathing was slow, still fast asleep. She relished in these rare moments, when Sherlock wasn't deducing, or running, or complaining. He appeared peaceful, and Molly swore that he'd never looked more magnificent. His curly hair resembled a chimney brush, the dark mane contrasting with his pale skin that was illuminated in the light.

"You're staring at me," His baritone voice stated, causing the pathologist to feel the vibrations.

"Good deduction," She replied teasingly.

The detective opened one eye and smirked, pulling her tightly against him.

"What time is it?" He asked.

"Almost nine, want some breakfast?"

"John has work today, so you'll find two cups of tea on the table, and maybe a plate of jam on toast if we're lucky."

"He's your flatmate, Sherlock. Not your bloody servant," Molly scolded, placing her bare feet on the cold floor. Before she could stand however, a familiar arm pulled her back and he snuggled his head into the crook of her neck.

"Five more minutes," He mumbled.

* * *

After another morning of Jeremy Kyle and countless cups of tea, Sherlock was becoming bored. They'd already played Cluedo – he lost. Shooting the wall was out of question, so instead, he played his violin. He performed his favourite pieces, which were followed by his own compositions (some secretly inspired by a certain pathologist) Molly sat in awe, admiring the detective as he walked gracefully around the room whilst playing. He set the instrument down once his fingers grew tired, and collapsed into his armchair.

"Molly, I'm bored," He complained.

"Call Greg and get yourself a case."

"No."

"Why not?" She asked, tilting her head in confusion.

"Because I refuse to leave you, we've already spoken about this."

"Sherlock, I'd be fine."

"No," He insisted stubbornly, while Molly rolled her eyes. After a moment, her eyes brightened with an idea.

"Why don't you take up another instrument?"

He went to answer, but paused instead. His expression changed to one of deep thought, and he soon smiled.

"I've always wanted to play the piano," He admitted, "But no tutor would have enough patience to teach me."

Grinning from ear to ear, Molly stood and slipped on her shoes.

"Grab your coat," She instructed.

"Where are we going?"

She gave him a knowing smile as they left the flat.

* * *

The first impression of the shop Sherlock stepped into wasn't a positive one. The yellow wallpaper was peeling at the corners, whilst wooden planks that covered the ground were chipped and damaged. A musty smell lingered in the dense air, causing the detective's nose to wrinkle as he crossed the threshold. The room was filled with unique items, from jewellery and pottery to old fashioned radios and televisions, all covered in a thick layer of dust. But as he glanced at the cheerful expression on Molly's face, he quickly realised their destination was one of familiarity and happiness to her. A neon sign outside told him he was standing inside a pawnbrokers, but he was still confused as to why.

"Well if it isn't Little Miss Hooper!" A deep voice exclaimed.

They both turned to see a smiling old man on the other side of the shop. The pale skin of his face was aged, but his eyes were filled with wisdom. He sat behind a wooden desk covered in newspaper crosswords, his eyes fixed on the couple.

"Billy!" Molly greeted, striding towards the counter, "How are you?"

"I'm bumbling along. As I've told you before, this life can weaken my bones but-"

"It can't weaken your spirit." She finished.

He threw the woman a proud smirk before focusing his attention on the detective beside her.

"And who might this young chap be?"

Before the pathologist could answer, Sherlock hurried over and shook his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm a…friend of Molly's." He informed.

"_The _Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I have a habit of getting onto the news."

Billy laughed and glanced at Molly.

"No son, that's not where I know you from. Molly talks about you all the time."

Sherlock raised his eyes as her face turned a violent shade of red. She threw an angry glare to the man behind the counter.

"She says you're a _Consulting Detective_," He stated, "Must be good if your face is getting on the front of my morning paper."

He couldn't help himself.

"You're in your early eighties and have two children. A widower, obviously, to which I give my condolences. A smoker. You were an amateur sculptor in your younger years and now collect model trains, going by your trousers," The detective deduced, his piercing gaze focused on him.

Molly held her breath, expecting Billy to be offended. Surprisingly, he started to chuckle.

"She wasn't kidding." He said in amazement, and they both joined in on the laughter.

"Okay, I'll be in the back if you need me," Billy informed at left the room.

Sherlock turned to the pathologist, his eyebrows raised in confusion.

"Billy was my dad's best friend," She explained, "I've been coming here a lot since he passed away."

"So why are we here now?"

"Because of that." She pointed to an upright piano stood against the back wall of the shop. The light wood was dusty, though the keys were polished and shining. They advanced towards the instrument and sat close together on the stool. Molly stroked the top in adoration before speaking.

"This piano belonged to my Grandmother, who passed it down to my father. He loved to play, and he started teaching me when I seven. Before he died, he put the piano in here, and told me that when I had the money I was to get it back. Ever since I've been visiting the shop to play, and now I'm going to teach you."

Sherlock stared at her in amazement as she spoke. She played the piano and _he hadn't noticed. _This thought ran throughout his mind like a broken record. He remembered all the times he assumed that he knew Molly inside and out and realised he was wrong. This woman – this beautiful, extraordinary woman- beat any case, any cigarette and Sherlock knew he was idiot for once thinking the opposite. He loved her more than he thought was possible, and he was never going to tire of solving the mystery that is Molly Hooper.

"Sherlock?"

Noticing that he hadn't spoken, the detective blinked before placing a hand at the nape of her neck and crushing her lips with his. Their feet entangled under the stool as her upper body moulded to his. She pulled away after a few moments, realising their location.

"I doubt this is the most appropriate place for…that," She whispered.

"Let's go home then," He replied, craving the feeling of her lips on his.

"No. We can do that later; right now you're going to learn the basics of piano playing."

She pointed to a white key on the instrument.

"Now, this is middle C," She began...


End file.
